


Five Times John Laurens Didn't Sleep With Alexander Hamilton (and One Time He Did)

by angelsdemonsducks



Series: canon era elams au [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Era, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John is a little bit not okay, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but he doesn't have to be a little bit not okay by himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 18:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: What it says on the tin.John has survived a lot on his own. But he's not on his own anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, historical accuracy? What’s that? This is based far more on the musical than actual historical canon, aka, Hamilton met the Revolutionary Squad™ all at once in a bar. SO BASICALLY don’t expect any historical accuracy. Like, at all, okay? :)
> 
> This is technically a semi-sequel to my fic More Of Us, but you don’t need to have read it to get what’s going on here.

i.

The first time John Laurens meets Alexander Hamilton, he is suitably impressed, as he supposes he is meant to be. Hamilton obviously places a lot of stock in the way other people perceive him, and he introduces himself in such a way as to make himself unforgettable. _I am not throwing away my shot, indeed,_ he thinks with amusement, viewing the man sitting across from him, who is all but falling asleep into his mug of beer. Mulligan and Lafayette left roughly an hour ago, Mulligan slapping him on the back and charging him with getting the man home ‘in one piece.’ Perhaps a task easier said than done, now that he thinks about it.

“Hamilton,” he says quietly, just to see if the other man will respond. He does, his head coming up from where it rests on the table, his eyes squinting blearily in John’s general direction.

“Who…? Ah, Laurens!” he exclaims after a moment, beaming. John lifts an eyebrow. It seems that Hamilton is even worse at holding his liquor than he himself is; no small feat, as his friends are often quick to point out.

“Yes, Laurens,” John agrees. “Hamilton, do you find yourself capable of walking? The hour grows late, and I believe it is past time you be getting home.” The man is little more than a boy, after all, only nineteen years old. He has intelligence far beyond his age, of course, but that does not mean he doesn’t need a certain amount of sleep to function.

Hamilton frowns and levers himself up from his stool. He manages to remain upright for all of four seconds before swaying and toppling over, landing hard on his rear. “Oof,” he states, sounding mystified as to how he has found himself in this position. He looks up. “Laurens,” he says, “at this juncture, I believe walking may be a tad unwise.” He sounds so very matter-of-fact about it that John cannot help but chuckle, which puts an offended pout on Hamilton’s face.

 _Adorable,_ he thinks, and blinks. Upon further consideration, he must be more inebriated than he thought he was. But that is no matter. In any case, he is certainly less so than Hamilton is, and as he has been charged with the other man’s protection, he will fulfill his duty. He stands, and the world sways slightly under his feet, but he retains his balance. He offers a hand to Hamilton, who is still sitting on the dirty bar floor. Hamilton regards the hand with disdain, but accepts it, allowing John to pull him to his feet. He stumbles, but before he can fall again, John slings one of his arms across his shoulders. Hamilton is not heavy at all, concerningly so.

“Hamilton, I feel that I should ask if you are eating properly,” he grunts as he maneuvers them both to the door. “You scarcely weigh more than a feather, man.”

Hamilton smiles lazily, his eyes half-lidded under the glow of the streetlights. “I haven’t the money,” he confesses. “But you see, I am going to go to college, and I’ll be fed well enough there, I am sure.” There is a childish excitement in his voice, a certainty that things are going to go his way, and it makes John smile. Optimism in a world turning upside-down can never hurt.

“That’s good,” he says. “Right or left?”

Hamilton looks down both directions, frowning as if it is a puzzle he needs to solve. “Ah, left, I believe,” he says at length. “I… do not believe it is far.”

John nods and starts in that direction. Thankfully, the streets are quite empty; there is no one to see the two drunken idiots as they stagger down the side of the road.

Hamilton is not wrong; not very much time passes before he nudges John in the side and says, “This would be my stop, my dear Laurens,” he says, and John halts.

“Very well then,” he says, giving the man another smile. “Good night Hamilton. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

Hamilton makes no move to step away, humming quietly. “It would be a better night,” he says slowly, a smirk spreading across his face, “if you were to spend it with me.”

And John freezes. That tone of voice in unmistakable, the true meaning of Hamilton’s statement obvious. What dismays him more than the words themselves, though, is that he is tempted, sorely tempted, to take the man up on his offer. There is no one here to see, and in the morning, they could explain it away by saying that John merely wished to ensure the safety of his newfound friend.

Oh, Lord have mercy, but John _wants_.

But Hamilton is, quite simply put, drunk, extremely so, and drunken consent is not consent at all. Tomorrow morning, he likely won’t recall that this conversation even happened in the first place, or if he does, he will deny it. No man in his right mind would admit saying such things to another man… right?

John shoves the thoughts away. _Do the right thing_ , he tells himself, and pretends not to see the disappointment in Hamilton’s eyes when he gently pushes him back. “Perhaps another time,” he says softly, kindly, “but tonight, Hamilton, you are very drunk, and I believe it best that you get some rest.”

And so Hamilton stumbles inside, casting one last look back at John over his shoulder, and he ignores the promises that gaze contains.

He cannot allow himself to wish for that which he cannot have.

 

 

 

ii.

The nights are long, long and cold, each minute of every hour seeming to stretch on for an eternity. John does not, however, allow himself to cease his vigil; perhaps it makes no difference, but he will not chance it.

Alexander lays insensible in the cot, sweating, dead to the world around him. He has been such for three days already, three days too long. The whispers that circulate the camp say that he will not wake up, but he refuses to believe that. Alexander is stronger than some illness. He has too much to do, too much to say, and he will not allow death to take him just yet.

He wishes that the Marquis and the General shared his certainty. But he sees the defeat in their eyes whenever one of them comes to visit, and he knows that they too believe Alexander to be lost to them.

But they do not force him to leave his side, something for which he is grateful.

Alexander moans and twists under the too-thin blankets, fighting a force John cannot see, much less fight for him. All he can do is remain by his side, stay with him until he has won this battle. He reaches under the covers and grasps his hand, the fingers of which feel like icicles resting on his palm. There is not enough warmth to go around here, but John would gladly give all that he has if it meant that Alexander would live.

“My dear Alexander,” he whispers, so low that he can barely hear himself, “I beg of you, do not die. Do not give into this. If you die in this war, it must be on the battlefield, in glory, so that men thereafter will sing of your bravery. If you give in here, you will be lucky to have a small alleyway named after you, and what will become of your legacy then?” Alexander’s legacy is all-important to him; he is obsessed with creating something that will last forever, and while John cannot imagine ever having a drive like that, he thinks he understand it. It would be nice, he believes, to be certain that he will be remembered when he is gone. It is in memory that people are made immortal, and it is only when that memory fades that people truly die.

“Fear not, Laurens,” comes the sudden rasp of Alexander’s voice. “I would not leave this earth just yet.” Just those two sentences leave him gasping for air, on the verge of a coughing fit, but John does not think he has ever heard a sound more heavenly.

“Alexander,” he says, unable to articulate anything else. Alexander smiles, though he looks a ghastly sight, like he is only a step from death’s door.

“John,” he says, and he really does break into a coughing fit this time. John holds him steady, feeling the shudders pass through him with no small amount of alarm. His frame is too small and thin, so much so that to John, it feels as if one more hard wheeze will break him in two. The fit subsides eventually, but not before his nerves are completely frayed.

“You mustn't look at me like that,” Alexander chides, managing to look disapproving despite the weakness that is tearing him apart from the inside out. “I am not going to die, I tell you. I will not permit it.” But his gaze is going cloudy again, cloudy and distant, and John knows they don’t have long before Alexander falls back into incoherency.

“I know,” he whispers, “I know.” He takes Alexander’s hand and kisses it, his cold skin almost burning his lips.

“John,” Alexander murmurs, eyes sliding shut. “Stay with me?”

“Always,” John promises.

And Alexander falls back into delirium, calling for people long gone, suffering under blows of a distant past that he does not speak of to anyone. John wants nothing more than to hold him, to slip under the blankets next to him and cradle him close, soothe away his terrors until he wakes again. But propriety dictates that he must do otherwise, and so he keeps his vigil.

Two days more, and the fever breaks. John keeps his vow, only once leaving to inform the General of Hamilton’s impending recovery. He does not imagine the gleam of relief he sees in the older man’s eyes at that, a relief that he most certainly shares.

 

 

 

 

iii.

Circumstances here in Philadelphia are far better than they might be, all things considering. John supposes he ought to be grateful to be considered valuable enough to be held hostage, but in truth, all he can feel is guilt. Other men, better men than he are being held in far worse conditions, with no hope of release by way of exchange. He knows that there is nothing he can do to alleviate their situation, but still, the thought of being given special treatment rests sour in his gut.

He is not permitted to leave the state, but otherwise, he is given much freedom in his movements, and he takes to wandering when he can, restless, wanting to find his way back where he belongs. To be idle while the war is still being waged does not sit well with him at all.

And then, one afternoon, Alexander Hamilton shows up on the doorstep, wearing a broad grin and dark, heavy circles under his eyes.

“My Laurens,” he greets, “I am most pleased to find you in good health.”

John’s eyes widen, and he looks around, pulling Alexander into the house before any can see him. “What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Alexander lifts an eyebrow. “Officially?” he asks. “Officially, I am delivering a letter. Unofficially, General Washington has sent me here to see you before I irritate him to death with my worrying. Or something of that sort, I forget his exact wording.”

John sighs. “Of course,” he agrees, and then smiles. He cannot help it; seeing Alexander again after a long separation is like seeing sunlight again after years in the dark. “How long can you stay?”

Alexander grimaces. “Unfortunately, I must return to camp by nightfall. But I believe that gives us a few hours.”

John pulls him in for a kiss, soft and gentle and slow, memorizing every sensation, every touch of Alexander’s lips on his. In wartime, one never knows if this will be the last time, so it is prudent to steal every second one can.

They reacquaint themselves with one another in the best way, but time flies by, and soon enough, Alexander must leave. John watches him go until he is far out of sight. He feels warm for the first time in a long while, set aflame from Alexander’s very presence, but when he goes to bed that night, it is empty, empty and cold, and the chill does not leave, no matter how many blankets he wraps himself in.

The expanse of the vacant bed seems terribly wide without Alexander to lay beside him.

 

 

 

iv.

minutes stretch into hours stretch into days stretch into eternity. he doesn’t know anymore, not when he is not where he is not who he is. the cannons are a constant presence in his mind, thundering tearing ripping destroying _boom boom booom boooooom_

or perhaps that is his heart. does he have a heart? he doesn’t know. surely he does not. surely he is dead. only death could be this cold, this lonely, this terrifying

he is alone in a storm. thunder crashes wind howls lighting flashes and illuminates the field. bodies, so many bodies, with their limbs at awkward angles and their eyes staring accusingly upward, whispering, always whispering _your fault your fault your fault why did you kill us your fault_

he does not deny their accusations, cannot deny them. he no longer has a voice to speak with, a mind to think with, because it has all been blown away in the tempest and the cannons go _boom boom boom_

he screams, but he makes no sound

“For God’s sake, hold him down!” he thinks he hears at one point, but that does not make sense. he ignores it. hold who down? he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, can’t

the storm takes him, battering him down until he is nothing more than a ghost in a field of ghosts, a dead man in a valley of corpses. _Yes, good_ , they whisper, grinning grotesquely, _join us. There is nothing more for you in the land of the living._ they throw bullets at him and everywhere one connects blood spurts out and he _hurts_

he is dead but is he? can dead men feel this much pain?

 _Yes,_ they whisper, _if the dead man regrets._

and the cannons go _boom boom boom boom booooom_

hands on him. hands touching feeling poking prodding stop stop stop stop stop and he fights, thrashes, bats them away. he wants them to leave. he doesn’t like them. they feel wrong. they are not supposed to touch him, only Ale-

but the hands keeps returning, bringing the storm, bringing the pain with them and the dead men laugh in their shallow graves. they force liquid down his throat, and he does not want it, so he spits as much of it out as he can. even that does not dissuade them, and they come back again and again and again and again and

darkness. sporadic intervals of it. it scares him but at least it is quiet. at least his mind does not rage inside an invisible cage with only death for company, at least he is free to think about to try to remember what he knows he has forgotten what is he forgetting

they come back. they always come back

“Leave me alone!” bursts from his throat at one point. it surprises him. he didn’t know he could form words anymore. it must surprise them too, because it works for a while. they leave

and then they return

_somebody please help me_

_please_

a face drifts into view, a lovely face a kind face a not-dead face and it smiles at him and he feels so warm so so very warm

 _My dear Laurens,_ the face says, _you really should wake up now._

wake up? yes, that sounds like a good idea, if the warm face is suggesting it. but he does not remember how

 _That’s alright,_ Alexander says. _I’ll show you how to do it._

the dead men protest and yowl, and the cannons go _boom boom boom_ one last time, one last bow, one final protest, and then there is silence, blessed silence, and he comes to to sunlight filtering in on his face and a nurse in the room fiddling with something on a bedside table.

He blinks. There are tears in his eyes. Why is he crying? He works his jaw; it feels sore. He moves his arms and legs; they have been strapped down to the bed.

 _A hospital?_ he wonders. He licks his horribly chapped lips. “Excuse me,” he rasps, his vocal chords rusty with apparent disuse, “but could you tell me where I am, please?”

The nurse jumps, wheels around, places a hand over her heart. He is uncertain as to what he did to cause this reaction. “Merciful Heavens,” the nurse says, one hand flying up to her mouth. The water pitcher she is holding goes clattering to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere, and he frowns. “You’re awake,” she continues in a whisper, as if she thinks any louder noise might… what, cause him to vanish? But that is absurd.

“Yes, I seem to be,” he agrees, but she is already gone, having rushed from the room as if all the devils of hell are on her heels. And he is left alone in a room, tied to an empty bed, a single name on his lips.

“Alexander,” he murmurs, and remembers.

 

 

 

v.

He may not be dead anymore, but wandering the halls of the Hamilton residence, he feels more like a ghost than he ever has before. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s here; the first real thought he had when he regained himself enough to think was of finding Alexander and hang the consequences. He has been very, very lucky thus far, lucky that Mrs. Hamilton didn’t turn him out as soon as he showed up, lucky that she seems willing enough to give him a place here.

But that won’t last, of that he is sure. She may be alright with him in theory, but theory and reality are two very different things. He is certain that faced with actual evidence of their transgressions, she will not be nearly so forgiving. And who could blame her?

So he keeps his distance, as much as it pains him. Keeps his distance and walks the length of the house over and over and over again like the dead man he feels himself to be. Alexander is worried about him, he can tell; it is obvious in his face whenever they see each other, mostly over the meals Mrs. Hamilton-- _Eliza_ , she told him to call her _Eliza_ \-- insists they all share together. Alexander can tell what a wreck he is. Alexander has always been able to tell. But that’s alright. He has little opportunity to see him during the day, busy with his work as he is, something for which he is grateful. He doesn’t think he could bear it; this avoidance is difficult enough, but he will continue with it if it means not disturbing the status quo. At least this way, he knows he _can_ see him, if he so chooses. Something that would not be possible if he overstayed his welcome.

Moonlight shines bright and clear, draping itself over the hallway. He stops to regard it for a moment, though he is unsure why it holds his attention so. _Swear not by the moon,_ he thinks suddenly, dimly, for no reason at all, and frowns. Where has he heard that before? He must have read it somewhere.

He continues to walk, ignoring the way his feet are growing sore. A respite might be nice, but at this point, a respite means sleep, and sleep is something he wants to avoid at all costs. Sleep means nightmares unless he exhausts himself to the point where he doesn’t have them, and the nightmares…

_dead men and blood and the cannons go boom boom boom_

...don’t bear mentioning.

He sighs and slips into a nearby door, hoping that a change in scenery will help to ease his mind. It is only when his eyes adjust to the darkness that he realizes he has slipped into Philip’s room by mistake. He should have known this was the boy’s room; he is sure that Alexander pointed it out when he was giving him a tour of the house. Perhaps he just forgot. His mind doesn’t hold on to information the way it used to.

He studies the child, who is sleeping soundly, a thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth. The innocence in that position almost brings a smile to his face, and he pads softly across the room to kneel by the boy’s bedside.

Whatever else is happening, whatever else the circumstances, he has becomes quite fond of this boy. Philip. Alexander’s son. Alexander was so happy for the two of them to meet, and his excitement was infectious. Despite the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to handle a child, not anymore, he has found himself growing attached.

A dangerous thing, he knows, because no matter how long he tries to prolong it, this peace they have built here, this balance, cannot last forever. And when it breaks, it will be him that leaves. Alexander and his wife got along fine without him, and they will be able to do so again.

 _A piece of him died when he discovered you were gone,_ Mrs. Hamilton’s voice whispers in his ear. _Your death silenced him, Laurens._ He winces, and Philip stirs in his sleep, making a small whimpering noise. John reaches out instinctively, rubbing gentle circles into the boy’s back and whispering soothing nothings. Philip settles down again.

 _I suppose that’s one thing I can do right,_ he thinks, and settles into a more comfortable position. He will not sleep tonight, of that much he is certain, but perhaps he can do some good regardless.

 

 

 

 

  

+1.

After a few weeks of this pattern, a few weeks of sleeping as little as possible and being seen even less, Alexander waits up for him. He doesn’t see him at first, not used to encountering anybody else on his nightly wanderings, but as he is about to exit the living room, a familiar voice stops him in his tracks.

“John,” Alexander says, his voice soft. “Are you not sleeping?”

He inhales, turns. Alexander is perched on the edge of one of the chairs, the same chair he himself sat on the first night he came here. “Does it matter?” he replies, just as quietly, and Alexander frowns, furrowing his brow.

“Of course it matters,” he says. “I barely see you. _We_ barely see you.”

He shrugs. “Isn’t that for the better?” he asks helplessly. Can’t Alexander see it? What a mess he is, how he’s a disaster waiting to happen? How it would be better for him to leave now before someone is hurt, how he’s only staying now because of his own stupid stubbornness, his own stupid selfishness?

“Of course it’s not for the better!” Alexander exclaims, standing. He cannot help the way he flinches back when he does, and he hopes it goes unnoticed, but Alexander sees and freezes. “John,” he says, his eyes going wide and pleading, “please. Tell me how to help.”

He laughs. He can’t help it. “I rather think I’m a bit beyond that,” he says wryly, and then Alexander is crossing the floor, and and and and what what is he doing now

 _He’s hugging me,_ he realizes. _This is… a hug._

“Never,” Alexander whispers fiercely, and he is reminded of why Lafayette always called him ‘little lion.’ “Never, Laurens, never. Do you understand? You are never beyond help. I am never going to let you go, do you hear me? _Never_.”

He finds his voice with some difficulty. “That might make moving rather difficult,” he says, his voice hoarse. He realizes with a start that tears are tracking down his face. When did he start crying?

Alexander huffs out a laugh and pulls back a little, looking him in the eyes, his own filled with tears unshed. “That it might,” he agrees. “I don’t care. Come to bed.” Something must show on his face, because he is quick to add, “Nothing need happen, but John, you look dead on your--- ah, you look exhausted.”

He opens his mouth to object. _But your wife,_ he wants to say, because surely Mrs. Hamilton, no matter how kind and tolerant a woman she may be, cannot possibly want her husband to sleep in bed with another man. Surely this will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the straw he has so desperately been avoiding until now.

But none of these words come, and so he lets Alexander guide him until they come to a room, though it is not his own, scarcely used room like he had expected, but rather the Hamiltons’ own. He jerks out of Alexander’s grip and takes a few steps back, shaking his head. The words still don’t come, but he thinks Alexander understands what he means anyway.

“You need sleep,” he says gently, but firm. “You need sleep, but the bed feels too big and empty for you, and there is nothing there to prevent the nightmares from coming.”

_Yes._

“Believe me, John, I know about these things. I can’t tell you about the countless times I slept in my office, or didn’t sleep at all because I didn’t want to trouble Eliza with the warzone in my head. But that didn’t help anybody, not me and not her. Please, John. Come to bed.”

_But your wife-_

He gives in. He has never been able to deny Alexander anything, not when he makes that face that looks so hopeful and so sad all at once. So he lets Alexander open the door and lead him inside. Mrs. Hamilton seems to be already asleep, but she lifts her head up when they enter.

“Alexander?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Yes, dearest,” Alexander says. “John too.”

She does not protest like John had been expecting her to. She only nods and puts her head back down on the pillows. “There’s plenty of room,” she says, like that is that, like this is a common occurrence, like she is perfectly alright with this.

Alexander smiles at him, as if saying, _See? I told you there was nothing to worry about._ He does not have a reply, not for this. He lets Alexander lead him into the bed without resistance, but he does not, _cannot_ relax, no matter how soft the mattress or warm the sheets.

And then, Alexander leans over and kisses him, slow and gentle and chaste. “Everything’s going to be alright,” he whispers, and by God, in that moment, John cannot help but believe him.

And so, that night, John Laurens falls asleep in a warm bed, feeling safe for the first time in a long while, feeling, perhaps, loved. If the nightmares come, he does not remember them.

**Author's Note:**

> John needs all the hugs. And all the life.
> 
> Come cry with me on [tumblr.](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
